


The two of us in sympathy

by Petra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Undercover As Prostitute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-14
Updated: 2008-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: Clark lets himself focus on one streetcorner in Gotham, and flies to where he can get a better view.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All [](http://thete1.livejournal.com/profile)[thete1](http://thete1.livejournal.com/)'s fault, as so many things are.

There are a vast but finite number of noises coming from an equally vast number of sources at any given instant. Clark can hear them all.

He still lacks an explanation as to why, in this case, he can also focus well enough to hear his father turn over in his sleep, or Lois waking herself up with a gentle snore.

Most of the world's population is awake, by the numbers, and when India and China are at their peak, it's louder than the other hemisphere. But there are cities that never sleep, and in Gotham, Bruce's heartbeat is much faster than his norm.

He could be in trouble -- he certainly puts himself into enough dangerous situations over the course of a week for any ten men -- and it's only courteous, or so Clark tells himself, to listen more closely.

Bruce isn't running or driving. He's not falling off of something, he's not underwater, and there are no voices near him. Whatever is happening, it's not the sort of immediate danger that usually makes him respond with a fight-or-flight instinct.

There are no massive dangers threatening the rest of the world at the moment. Clark lets himself focus on one streetcorner in Gotham, and flies to where he can get a better view.

He knows the sound of Bruce's breathing well enough to find him in any disguise, but he's still surprised enough at what he sees to check the block again. Bruce is leaning against a wall, casual to the point of lounging. Instead of his protective uniform, he is wearing pants so tight that if it were possible to paint with leather, the effect would be similar to this. Clark is moderately sure that humans wouldn't be able to see the outline of the scars on Bruce's thighs through the material, but to him they stand out like a relief of mountain ranges.

His shirt is equally tight, a flimsy cotton that does nothing whatsoever to hide his musculature. A human would certainly note that his nipples are tight with cold, even though he's wearing a jacket, open and loose, in the same shade as his pants.

Obviously, this is an undercover operation, and whatever prey Bruce is stalking has yet to arrive.

What exactly he will do when he pounces --

Clark ought to look away, but the more he watches, the more he's reminded of Bruce telling him, "You have no concept of subtlety," in the midst of a Justice League operation.

Subtlety. Bruce's outfit is subtle like a brick to the hindbrain.

Clark has a change of clothing, and it's the work of a moment to shake them out sufficiently and put them on. He doesn't look half as smooth or taut as Bruce does, but with a pair of sunglasses, he looks plausibly like someone who doesn't want to be recognized.

He can hear Bruce recognize him when he's half a block away, a quick shift of his weight and a slight intake of breath. To be properly subtle, he should leave at that point, either by turning around or confirming Bruce's suspicions by disappearing.

If he's going to be unsubtle, on the other hand -- he walks up to Bruce, doing his best to mock the body language of someone who would be uncomfortable in this neighborhood, talking to the kind of man Bruce is pretending to be. "Um. Hi."

"Evening." Bruce gives him a smile that's almost entirely a leer, and still manages to convey, "What are you doing here? Go away."

Clark glances down the street. "I, um -- are you -- I mean, how much?"

Bruce touches the fabric of Clark's jacket and smirks. "I think I'm out of your price range."

"I wouldn't wear my best to come down here," Clark says, and Bruce's eyes narrow. "I can pay."

Bruce smiles and says, softly enough that a human would only hear a breath, "The target is six foot one, two ten, tattoo of a dagger on his right hand." Then he smiles and says, "Then -- come on up."

No one in a ten block radius has that kind of tattoo. Clark laughs -- nervously -- and smiles. "Great."

He does another sweep while they're climbing the stairs in the somewhat restored slum, and another while Bruce unlocks the door. "So," Clark says, "Um."

"Relax," Bruce says, and pulls him into the room and into a kiss that's almost entirely unlike kissing Batman would be.

They've never actually done this, but it's been there, one of the possibilities between fighting side by side and saving the world, or sometimes just each other. If everything fell into place, if the world was safe enough and the city -- every city, but this one most particularly -- had no pressing need -- then this would be a possibility. There have been glances, touches, moments when --

But no moments like this one, and Gotham isn't safe right now.

Bruce kisses him like he's trying to earn his theoretical payment, like he doesn't know Clark and has to start impressing him from the beginning again. Forceful and sweet, and hungry. Clark considers stopping him, stopping all of this, and explaining that Bruce won him over years before.

That he's been waiting for this, every time Bruce showed up at the Daily Planet with roses for Lois and a wink for Clark --

He laughs at himself for the temptation to state the obvious to Bruce -- to Batman -- and kisses him back. There's no need to pretend they don't know each other, and therefore no need to keep his reactions to human norms.

Lifting Bruce and carrying them to the bed in a fraction of a second makes it hard to slow down enough to simply push his flimsy shirt up. "Damn," Bruce says, and he's smiling more broadly than he ever does in the cowl. "This is gonna be piecework, not hourly, if you're in that much of a hurry."

Clark helps him out of the jacket and takes the opportunity to scan the neighborhood again. There's a man matching Bruce's description eight blocks away, swaggering in. "Is this where you bring all your -- tricks?"

Bruce laughs. "What, you think I take guys down to Central and blow them there?"

"That would be really kinky." Clark squeezes Bruce's erection through his pants and sits up. "Don't go anywhere."

In human terms, it takes less than a minute for Clark to retrieve the evidence from the Batcave, apprehend and restrain the suspect, and deposit him in the bullpen at the police headquarters with a note of explanation.

Bruce has taken his boots off when Clark gets back, and has his pants unfastened. His hand is on his erection, and his flushed cheeks are entirely at odds with his skeptical expression. He raises one eyebrow at Clark. "If you're going to disappear like that, you'd better pay me first."

"I think you'll find I've paid in full." Clark kisses him again and catches his hand when he reaches for Clark's zipper, pushing it away from the pocket where his Superman uniform is stored.

Bruce squeezes his ass. "Why should I give you credit for that?" He's still at least half in character -- in this character.

Superman would never be here, and Clark Kent is happily married.

Happily enough that he'll tell Lois every detail of this, and there will be flowers on Bruce's desk first thing in the morning, along with an invitation.

Clark smiles at him and helps him peel his shirt off. Bruce's chest is not a revelation -- but there's something to be said for his willingness to expose it. "Don't you recognize me?" He licks his thumb and strokes Bruce's nipples with it, in turn.

"Mm." Bruce shrugs. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Clark takes off his glasses and leans in to lick his nipple. "You look just like --"

"Call me whatever you want," Bruce says, and there's a catch in his voice. "You can get naked, it doesn't cost extra."

"Fine." Clark embraces him again and lifts him -- calculating all the while just how much this is beyond human behavior, and how much it could ultimately be excused -- to ease him out of his pants. "How do you put these on?" he asks, and drops them.

Bruce laughs and nuzzles his neck as though he's unaware he's in midair, and that Clark's hand on his hip is the only thing holding him up. "Specialized training."

"Of course." Clark lets him lie back down and bends to mouth his pelvis. He tastes like sweat and leather, like -- "Bruce, you don't have to -- act."

"If you're going to call me that, I will," and it's Batman's voice.

Clark is torn between the desire to smile at him and explain the depths of his affection and the desire to taste him. "Do what you must."

Bruce sighs when Clark licks him, but his voice stays deep. "You don't have to be so gentle."

The complex secretions of human arousal are no more compelling than the burr in Bruce's voice. Clark squeezes his hip. "I know. I know you won't break."

Bruce groans. "Not for you." He opens his eyes and gives Clark a wholly familiar look. "You're getting this backward."

Clark licks him until he shivers before he asks, "Am I?"

"Nn. What are you paying for, here?"

"Your time." Clark sucks him and Bruce presses his hand to the back of Clark's head. Useless, even with his strength; needless, given his enthusiasm.

Bruce's hips jerk, and the sheer human vulnerability of the motion makes Clark groan. Bruce is so rarely willing to let go of his control, even in safe situations.

The thought makes Clark broaden his focus for long enough to be certain that they are still entirely safe. There are no audible threats in the radius he has been monitoring, and while there must be others, farther out -- it is enough. When he is certain of the perimeter, at least, he runs his hand down Bruce's thigh and pulls off enough to taste him properly again. Bruce hisses between his teeth. "You sure sound like you're getting off on that."

It's not the phrasing Bruce would use if he were entirely himself. Clark shakes his head. "What does it take to get you to enjoy yourself?"

Bruce wraps his hand around the base of his erection. "Is that what you want?"

The offer is attractive, but still dishonest. "Not unless you want it."

"You paid me," Bruce says, and shrugs.

Clark moves up the bed to kiss him and covers Bruce's hand with his own. It was his own fault for getting mixed up in an undercover operation, and Bruce is apparently angry enough with him to ignore his more subtle pushes to end the game. "Not enough for this." He kisses Bruce lightly. "Won't you recognize me yet?"

"You're very demanding, given the magnitude of the favor you did me," and the acerbic tone is all Bruce's. He pulls Clark down for another kiss and thrusts into their fists, smoothly as if they do this daily. As if this is somehow normal -- or, perhaps, as if he has extensive control when it comes to separating his consciousness from physical concerns. "His employer will be looking for him."

Clark bites Bruce's lower lip gently enough that it grows slightly redder and squeezes him again. "Will you accept my help?"

"This is -- ah -- my city." Bruce shudders. "I don't -- need you."

"No, of course you don't." Clark squeezes him again, speeds their hands up slightly, and he groans. "I wanted --"

"What?" So harsh, so low, it could be Batman's voice.

"An invitation," Clark says, and kisses him again. The extremity of sexual arousal has a strange tension, in keeping with the conversation, though not with their friendship as a whole.

Bruce shakes his head, breaking the kiss off. "For what?"

Clark licks his neck, bites carefully enough that it won't leave a mark. "To do this again."

The words, innocent as they are, make Bruce shake and come in their hands, gasping with the force of the release. He opens his eyes afterward, looking as shaken as any other human after orgasm. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?" Clark lets him go and licks his own thumb clean, half for the chance to memorize the taste and half to see Bruce's reaction. Bruce's eyelids flutter closed for a moment, and then he smiles a tight smile.

"As seduction attempts go --" he waves his sticky hand. "Your timing could have been better."

Clark hears a descending whine, too far away for Bruce to catch it, surely. To the west -- over Iowa -- there is a plane falling too quickly. "True," he says, and leaves via the window, changing his clothing in midair over empty ground at the fastest speed he dares use anywhere near humans.

"I expected more precision, Superman," Bruce says, a thousand miles and more behind him.

As if the discussion is over. It won't be over until Lois has seen that particular pair of pants.

At the moment, though, Clark has a plane to catch, and Bruce has already started changing into his more habitual nighttime attire. 


End file.
